Dragonblood and Demonfire
by Kat Blackstreak
Summary: One woman, one man: united in their quest to save Mundus from the Fires of Oblivion, a quest that will bring down an empire and change forever the relationship between man and the gods. Two strangers, fatefully entwined: dragonblood and demonfire until death does it part them.
1. The Priest Faces Hell

Prologue

 _The Priest Faces Hell_

The candle flames flickered against the chapel walls, disturbed by a breeze that was not there; it caught his attention only for a second before he busied himself again with his duties: cleaning the tarnished silver of his offering cup, pouring the wine, reading through the chosen passages for his midnight service... trying to ignore the gnawing feeling of insecurity that was gradually spreading through his veins. Beads of sweat swelled, rolled down his strained face, he swatted them away.

Brother Martin looked up and eyed his familiar surroundings: the cold stone pillars of his chapel, the intricate details carved into his Nine shrines, the vibrant stained glass windows that were now taking on a deep crimson hue – sunset already?

The candle flames flickered again, this time Martin noticed.

His insecurities gradually turned to something a lot more like fear. It was as though there was a great pressure building in the air, threatening to suffocate him, to blow the windows from their steel frames. It was a feeling that had once been all too familiar with him, a feeling from his youth when his sins had reigned free over his actions and the consequences had been too high a price for him to pay. Something was lurking in the shadows, watching him, waiting.

The darkness began to swell. The candles dimmed, the flames no longer flickering but beginning to die, the light being stolen from them.

 _Something is coming_.

The ground was trembling; Martin reached for his altar, desperately searching for the shrine of Akatosh, to seek the comfort of his chosen Divine. But as his fingers came in contact with the rough, chiselled stone of the dragon avatar, a sudden piercing pain split through his skull and the priest's world went black.

The earth beneath his hands was burning, its ashen texture like that of a charred corpse. He pushed himself up, staggered to his feet and felt the air be taken from his lungs as he tried to cry out. Martin stood for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to understand where he was and how he had got there, trying to ignore the feeling that he had been here before, that deep down, he knew this place well. The flesh on his hands that had come into contact with the scorched soil was already blistering, peeling away to reveal red raw sores beneath – an attempt to heal his wounds did nothing, his spells failed him.

He stumbled towards a lump of boulders perched precariously at the edge of what was a gigantic cliff face, tripping over tree roots that looked too much like the limbs of men and women who had been consumed by the ground. Above his head, the sky burned, fires blazed in the distance and a river of molten lava boiled and bubbled beneath him. The rocks that Martin leaned against were no cooler, he could feel them warming his body through his stiff robe, the heat making his skin prickle and jolt. But their sturdiness provided him with and odd sense of comfort: he had not lost his mind, all of this was _real_.

Though with that realisation, he slipped back into panic: he had rediscovered hell.

And then – footsteps, coming towards him. With no weapon, no spells, no potions and no clarity of mind, Brother Martin prepared to die.

From behind a mound of charred earth, a figure dressed head to toe in blackened, damaged armour appeared and approached him with purpose, stopping only a few metres from him. Martin's heart quickened in pace, he felt the fear threatening to suffocate him once again. The stranger raised a hand to the mangled helmet that obscured their face and began to remove it. The priest watched with a morbid fascination, desperate to look upon the face that was hiding behind the metal and all the while battling with the same thoughts raging through his mind: _I know who you are.._.

The darkness was taking him over again, he could feel it creeping about the corner of his eyes, trying to blind him, drown him. But before he was lost again to the night, he caught sight of her eyes and the helmet came away – _her_ eyes? – Yes, _her_ eyes.

He'd seen those eyes before, in nightmares just like this one but he couldn't make out her face: it was blanketed by the shadows that were wrapping around him, stealing him. But those eyes stayed with him as he fell away: eyes of deepest, darkest violet, eyes of a Divine – or a demon.

And a voice - her voice perhaps – a voice that spoke to him as he slipped away...

" _These things now belong to you..."_

And then he was lost once more.

Cold marble and a screaming headache welcomed Martin to the mortal land, his trembling fingers found clotted blood on the top of his scalp, clinging to his hair. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear screaming – or was that simply his ears ringing? Staggering to his feet, he turned to the avatar of Akatosh.

"What are the implications of such a vision?"

He was searching his memory, running through all that he had seen: the fire, the ash, the burning skies, the woman... _that_ woman. Her eyes. Their intensity, so dark that they were almost black. But who was she? Why did Martin feel as though he had met her once before?

He did not have long to dwell on these worries, however, for the doors of his chapel were thrown open without warning and Lenka, an Imperial who had been plagued with many unfortunate troubles throughout her years, fell through them, her face a mask of terror. She stumbled towards him.

"Dead, they're all dead! Dead, dead! Akatosh, protect me! Holy ground, pray that I am safe! Save me! Martin, brother... "

He ran forwards, catching her as her legs collapsed and her limbs crumbled. Her body was shaking, she was covered in soot and splattered with warm, sticky blood. Martin noted somewhere in his mind that it was not hers: though her skin was marked with cuts and grazes, there were no injuries that caused alarm. This blood was the blood of another, though the priest dare not imagine to whom it belonged. Beyond the open doors of his beloved chapel, he could hear screaming; the light that spread across the floor was scarlet, staining the stonework.

The doors leading from to the undercroft slammed open, and Oleta was soon alongside Martin, helping him to support Lenka to her feet. "I heard the screams," she breathed, pushing her greying locks from her sweaty brow, "brother, what is happening?"

Martin could only shake his head, the Divines only knew what was going on outside the safe walls of the chapel, but someone had to do something; he found his free hand wrapping around his Dagger of Sparks, an old friend he had hoped he would no longer have use for. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Oleta watching him, her tanned face strained.

"Brother..." she began, stopping when he shook his head.

"Look after her, Oleta," he commanded, his voice steady, hiding the fear that bubbled just beneath the surface. Lenka continued to babble and shake as he released her to the Redguard's capable care; Oleta stood firm beneath the weight.

"Do you intend to fight?" She eyed him knowingly, calmly and silently accepting that her church leader had been carrying a concealed weapon beneath his garments.

"I hope not to, but if required to defend the people of Kvatch, then fight I must. Once Lenka is taken care of, Oleta, I urge you to find as many bedrolls and supplies as possible from the vaults – I intend to bring back as many survivors as I can."

"You don't know what you are facing out there."

"That is irrelevant, my duty is to act in the name of Akatosh: to protect and to guide all those in need. Whatever awaits me outside of these walls... I will ask Akatosh to guide and strengthen me in my endeavours. Close the doors after I leave, trust in your judgement of who to allow in..."

With that, he strode away, leaving his healer standing forlorn by the Altar of the Nine. He reached the great oak doors and felt his courage falter as he looked out upon the battlefield that awaited him. The sky was burning; the city skyline was no longer recognisable; great monstrosities were parading the streets, chasing those who still survived, hunting them down. Those who had not been so lucky were strewn over the road, only a few distinguishable as people.

As Martin prepared to rush into the fray, he suddenly knew where he had been what seemed like only moments ago, what he was now looking out upon: the planes of Oblivion had come to Mundus, Daedra now walked amongst men. The priest turned back to his chapel, just for a moment, and made one final prayer to Akatosh, before launching himself into hell.


	2. The Prisoner Escapes

Chapter One

The Prisoner Escapes

" _I was born 87 years ago. For 65 years I have ruled as the Emperor of Tamriel. But for all these years I have never been the ruler of my own dreams. I have seen the Gates of Oblivion, beyond which no waking eye may see. Behold, in Darkness, a Doom sweeps the land. This is the 27_ _th_ _of Last Seed; the Year of Akatosh 433. These are the closing days of the 3_ _rd_ _Era, and the final hours of my life."_

She awoke with a start, lurching forwards, panic-stricken; beads of sweat were rolling down her face, washing away with them specks of dirt and blood. Her head throbbed and her palms tingled, as though flesh that had been burned away had quickly regrown. It took her a moment to gather her senses; the dream, so fresh in her mind, held her attention. Memories of the man waiting for her across that blazing terrain clouded her thoughts: the man with the strong jaw and the furrowed brow – face of a soldier, robes of a priest. She had known him. She had known too, the man he had aged into, his plain linen becoming Imperial finery, his skin growing loose and his brown locks turning platinum. But then, as quickly as they had appeared, the images of the dream were gone, lost to her, and her current situation took her full attention.

She was in a prison cell. An Imperial City prison cell.

This was not the first time she had found herself in such a predicament.

Suddenly cold, she realised that she was mostly naked but for a sack cloth shirt and trousers; rusting irons clung to her scabbed wrists, they had rubbed her skin raw during her sleep. Her clothes, her armour, her weapons – they were all gone – and so was...

Her heart faltered.

"... _Gwynn!?"_

Her mind stretched out to her Familiar, searching for him outside of the prison, hoping that the events that had led to her imprisonment had not resulted in a worse fate for him – he was not a creature of Mundus, there were always those seeking to harm him. But she found him, calling out to her mind from outside the city limits, roaming amongst the grassy verges: he was waiting for her return patiently, not too far from her. In this she found comfort, but the feeling was brief, there was no telling how long she'd be imprisoned considering she did not yet know the reason for her current incarceration.

In fact, she hadn't even _been_ in the Imperial City the last time she had been conscious: last thing she remembered, she'd been in Anvil, enjoying the intimate company of the infamous Faustina Cartia in one of the shabby rooms of The Flowing Bowl Tavern.

Sure, Faustina was a wanted woman, but they'd both been careful: no one had known where they were that night. Unless the wretched thief herself had put her into this position... but that was very unlikely – Cartia wasn't all that bright, and she'd been easy to seduce. She was also the type of woman to murder you herself, not hand you to another to do the deed. No, this wasn't Faustina's doing. And yet, somehow, and for some Divine-damned reason, this rather unlucky Imperial had woken up forty miles to the east in a prison cell, numerous telling marks of violence on her but no recollection of how she'd ended up there.

It was early morning, for all she could tell from the small window above her; the stars were still out but in the distance there was an ever-growing amber hue. The sun was steadily approaching the mortal planes. Gingerly, she climbed out of her straw cot and searched for water in the limited light; her movements attracting the unwanted attention of a keen-eyed companion across the hallway.

"Oh look! An Imperial in the Imperial Prison!" A Dark Elf, his mottled face framed with greasy blonde hair, danced and squealed gleefully before her, crimson eyes widening with delight, "I guess they don't play favourites, huh? Your own kinsmen think you're a piece of human trash. How sad."

The Imperial said nothing, instead, she approached her gate to get a better look at him, resting her coarse hands on the rusting iron bars.

"I bet the guards give you 'special treatment' before the end. Did you think they were going to set you free? Isn't it obvious what's going to happen to you? You're going to die in here, Imperial! You're going to die! Imperial scum like you give the Empire a bad name, you see...

She remained silent still, coolly observing this vicious character, calmly imagining slitting his throat and feeling a lot better. Suddenly, there was a creak of hinges somewhere above them moving under the heavy weight of a solid oak door, then the sound of rapid footsteps against the stone, the jingle of keys. The Dunmer giggled and leered in her direction, his eyes taunting her hungrily, almost desperately trying to raise a reaction. "Do you hear that, Imperial? The guards are coming for you."

" _Perhaps they are..."_ she thought, unperturbed. But now would be an unusual time for an execution, such events were a large, public affair – and it was the middle of the damn night! As she listened though, ignoring her less-than-friendly neighbour's taunts, her accustomed ears noted that there was too much desperation in the approaching footsteps, whoever was coming was in a frantic state. Experience had taught her that guards seeking to dish out punishment would take their time: the waiting simply tormented their prisoners more.

"Baurus, lock that door behind us."

"Yes'sir."

That confirmed it then. They _were_ Imperial City guards, there was no way they could not be; there had been such a demanding, high-and-mighty tone from the first speaker that the new arrivals could be no one else. And they _weren't_ coming for her, after all, you don't lock the door that lies between the prisoner and the chopping block.

Then another voice, softer, sorrowful:

"My sons, they're dead aren't they?"

"We don't know that, Sire. The messenger only said that they were attacked."

"No, they're dead. I know it."

"My job right now, is to get you to safety."

This was something new. _Sire?_ The prisoner was suddenly very aware that something enormously important was taking place right in front of her. There was only one person in the entire of Tamriel that was addressed as Sire... and that person just happened to take residence within the Imperial City...

"I know this place... the prison?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

The new characters drew closer, and within moments, the Imperial found herself face to face with Emperor Uriel Septim VII and three very unimpressed guards.

"What is this prisoner doing here!? This cell is supposed to be off limits!"

The prisoner smiled ever so slightly, only thinking what she longed to say: ' _well open the door and I'll get out of your way.'_

The Captain of the trio - a stocky, middle-aged Breton woman dressed in fine armour - scowled at this misfortune: it had been she who had spoken.

Another soldier, a Redguard, hesitantly tried to make sense of the mess: "usual mix-up with the Watch, I..."

"Never mind," the woman interrupted, throwing a hand up to silence her lesser, "get that gate open!" Stand back prisoner, we won't hesitate to kill you if you get in our way."

The prisoner took a step back, her face remaining blank, no emotion showing through her steely resolve; as she did so, the Redguard approached and fumbled with the keys in his hand, slowly inserting it into the lock. The Emperor remained silent, but the third member of his guard, a fellow Imperial, didn't hesitate in making it apparent that he was a complete arse: "You, prisoner! Stand aside, over by the window. Stay out of the way, and you won't get hurt."

' _Perhaps I won't',_ she mused, ' _but I'm not sure I can ensure the same for you once you're in here.'_

She did as commanded, stepping backwards, not once turning away; she always enjoyed maintaining eye contact, having found that her unique attribute had a certain way of unnerving others. She could see in their faces that it was working, but they weren't too uncomfortable to turn away. The Captain entered first, followed by the Imperial dog, then the Emperor; the Redguard was left to bar entry to the cell once more, shutting the gate and locking it behind him. The prisoner's interest peaked – so just _where_ exactly were they going?

The newcomers watched her carefully, weapons raised and ready to strike a deadly blow – but slowly, the Emperor raised his own hand to the shoulder of the Captain, encouraging her to step aside so that he could look upon the face of the prisoner without obstruction.

"You... I've seen you before. Let me see your face."

His voice was calm, soft, but commanding and the chained Imperial felt compelled to obey, drawn to his pale blue eyes and kind face. His face was worn: the lines showing his years, revealing the strain that he was clearly under. Though clearly old, silver locks framing his pained face, he retained an aura of majesty: dressed in gold-trimmed robes, a glorious erubescent jewel hung from his neck on a thick golden chain.

For a moment, they stood and faced one another, Emperor and Prisoner, and between them surged an unknown, overwhelming energy. Septim began to raise his hand, as though to rest it upon her sooty cheek, though he corrected himself before he dared try, "you are the one from my dreams... Then the stars were right and this is the day. Gods give me strength."

The prisoner watched him, this man so blessed by the Divines, contemplating all of the best responses... and deciding on her most pressing question: "Why am I in jail?"

She was never one for wasting her words.

"Perhaps the Gods have placed you here, so that you and I might meet. As for what you have done... it does not matter. That is not what you will be remembered for."

The Captain interrupted at this point, visibly frustrated by the distraction the Imperial was causing for her Emperor. "Please Sire, we must keep moving."

The more aggressive guard, the Imperial scum, pressed closer towards the prisoner despite the Emperor's pardon, forcing her to stumble backwards against her cot as his commander activated a hidden switch embedded within the stone wall. Without warning or assistance, the bricks moved away from the cell and swung back, as though it was merely a wooden door on a well-greased hinge.

Choosing to ignore his guards' plea to move on, Uriel Septim turned to look at the prisoner once more, seemingly entranced. "By chance, the entrance to my secret escape route lies within a cell that was supposed to remain empty, inhabited by an individual who does not even know why she is here. But perhaps chance had nothing to do with it..."

The Imperial stiffened, eyes blazing, her heart turning cold: no man, nor Divine, was the master of her fate. "I go my own way." Her words were sharp, jagged.

The Emperor simply smiled. "So do we all. But what path can be avoided whose end is fixed by the almighty Gods?"

And then he turned away, disappearing through the dust cloud formed by the disturbance of the stone. The Redguard who kept up the back of the train smiled as he passed her, it was a friendly sort of smile, one of warmth. "Looks like this is your lucky day. Just... stay out of our way. Glenroy and Captain Renault are not the type to appreciate interferences to their plans. It would be a shame for you be killed just after you were freed."

Then he was gone, and the Imperial prisoner was left alone once more. She listened to the echoing of the party's footsteps, then smiled the smallest of smiles. For the first time in many years, it seemed the Divines were working in her favour. "Don't get in _my_ way, Redguard," she muttered, peering through the tunnel, eyeing her escape.

But before she went anywhere, she had a promise to make to a fellow captive.

She walked purposefully to the gate of her cell, wrapping slender fingers around the iron bars once again, leaning forward with purpose; black eyes met those of the Dunmer across the hall, who had quite obviously been eagerly listening in to the conversation. She felt the frost grip her heart and her gaze darken as a cruel sneer crept onto her face. His grey, paled skin turned a sickly ashen shade at the sight of her expression.

"You're going to die in here, Dunmer! And it won't be the guards who come for you and give you 'special treatment' before the end, it will be me. Consider that a promise, from one piece of scum to another."

And then she was gone, her threat hanging in the air like a heavy storm cloud.

She was good at sneaking – having lived a life like hers, being 'good' at sneaking was an absolute necessity – and that was how she made her way through the secret passage, listening closely to the party up ahead, staying at a safe distance. Soon, the tunnel became underground ruins, giant stone blocks marking out stairways, pillars and corridors. But it was here she stopped, a sudden commotion had broken out beyond the next turn.

"Protect the Emperor!"

She heard the clash of metal, valiant war cries and then a silence that stretched out into the gloom. She waited patiently, aware that words were being spoken between survivors, but, unable to make them out, she stayed put, not daring to reveal her face. Then, in the dark, she recognised the sound of a grate swinging shut, and a key turning in the lock: her exit was barred.

No longer needing to hide, she raced forwards from behind her cover and out onto the remains of a small battlefield: four mangled carcasses were strewn around, blood steadily spreading upon the stone. The closest was that of the Captain, her head at a disturbingly usual angle to the rest of her body; on closer inspection, a strong blow to her face had severely dented one eye socket. Death had come swiftly and honourably and out of ingrained respect to the dead, the Imperial bowed her head.

Then her eyes found the bodies of those that had so swiftly ended the Captain's life, and the murderous frost crept through her veins again. It had been a long time since she had seen armour like that, and she had hoped that when she came across it once more, it would be she who killed the individual daring to wear it. Two men and one woman lay not far from Renault, dressed from head to toe in crimson robes adorned with jagged, silver armour, their faces shielded by hideous masks. Immediately, it became clear to her the danger that the Emperor was in. These were no ordinary assassins: they were members of the Mythic Dawn.

That settled it then. Though she wanted nothing to do with the "plans of the Divines", she had her own promises to keep, her own revenge to exact. If the Mythic Dawn wanted the Emperor dead, then it was her duty to keep him alive, at all costs.

But how to get to him?

The iron cuffs on her wrists needed to be broken off, they were harnessing her magicka, preventing her from summoning Gwynn to her side. And without any of her protective gear, she was very, very vulnerable. But there was nothing she could about that, instead, she rummaged through the corpses, trying to find anything worth salvaging. She came across a few potions, a handful of money but nothing else significant, nothing to remove the cuffs on her wrists, nothing to defend herself with. She couldn't bring herself to desecrate the armour of the fallen captain, and the armour of the Mythic Dawn had vanished into thin air, leaving them clothed in their simple crimson garb. She took a pair of shoes though: something told her she'd need to be swift on her feet.

Then her eyes caught the silver gleam of a sharpened katana, a golden hilt intricately carved. The colours matched those of the captain's armour, and it was far too delicate to belong to the brutish Daedra-worshippers. It would do the job perfectly. On lifting it from the ground, she felt an energy surge through her – it belonged in her hand.

Suitably armed, considering her situation, she turned her attention to the second, slightly trickier, problem. How was she to get out?

The gate was sturdily locked, but to the right, the bricks were loose and sitting unevenly. On further inspection, between the cracks, the prisoner saw light: the dull, orange flicker of a torch. A secret pathway lay the other side.

The bricks grinded together in protest as her foot came into contact with them, slamming against them, loosening bit by bit from one another. The wall grumbled and initially remained steadfast but it began to crumble, eventually revealing a sandy, poorly-lit route just beyond it. A way out. Freedom, revenge: they called to her. She squeezed through the gap she had created and took a long, deep breath, her grip tightening on her blade and a small smile flickering against bruised lips.

" _I go my own way."_

Wasn't that how it had always been?

* * *

 _She had been able to read from an impossibly early age, it had been her father's proudest triumph. It was as though the words were within her from the very first moment she turned a page, every book she opened became a part of her. Father's library was one of the most extensive within the whole of Cyrodiil – rivalling even that of the Emperor! Naturally the University had played a large part in building his creation, but Xandedus Evire had other connections – connections that could secure him those texts that, though brimming with wonders, should not have been written, and should never have been read._

 _Such editions he kept hidden away, but his daughter took after his beloved wife and was a rebellious soul by nature; she seemed to possess an innate capability to sense the magicka that laced the pages. Books hidden, did not usually remain that way. When she had been no more than four years of age, she had once turned to her father when they had been sitting together in his library and told him to listen to the books sitting above his head: she told him that they were laughing. Xandedus had not been particularly concerned, he knew his daughter to be magically gifted in many ways and trusted in his capabilities when it came to hiding and securing his most dangerous items._

 _... still, just in case she ever were to happen on one of his forbidden texts, in the library, there was one very clear instruction: no book was to be touched, opened or read without Father's explicit permission. Ever._

 _Unfortunately for his little one, this seemed to be the one rule that was impossible to follow._

 _She knew about the bad books, the ones her father thought he had kept secret from her and the rest of the world. She knew about them because of all the books in the library, they were the ones that talked to her the most, they were the loudest, the ones most desperate to be heard. No one else seemed to hear them, or maybe they did and simply didn't listen; Little Evire tried to shut them out, but she was young, just ten years of age, and not yet capable of drowning out their words. For many years, she simply had to pretend she could not hear them and will herself to pick up something safe like, 'A Brief History of the Empire' or 'A Children's Anuad' – trying to listen their soft, muted voices soothing her as she read. Sometimes the temptation would be too great and she would easily locate the forbidden ones – she'd pick one up quickly, flick through the pages at speed and shove it back where she found it: hoping that this time, her appetite for the dark magic had been satiated. She was careful to keep herself safe, to never fully read the sentences and to never speak a word out loud – so far, she had succeeded._

 _But all that changed, in the 417_ _th_ _year during Rain's Hand, when her beloved Father brought a new book home from the University, wrapped in crinkled, plain brown paper and smuggled under his cloak._

 _She'd heard it calling out to her before her father had even reached the house, and by the time he was through the door and wiping his sodden brown with the edge of his rain-soaked sleeve, she was at the top of the stairs to watch him, accusatory eyes darkening as they rested on the small object stuffed beneath his arm. He saw her, and at once beamed in her direction, a little too enthusiastically, pulling his cloak across his chest. He should have known then, that his child could not be fooled._

" _Little One," his voice was deep, soothing and forceful all at once, "do not visit me in the library tonight."_

 _And then he turned away and strode to his study, bolting the door shut behind him. Little Evire blinked, her curious eyes still dark, and slowly trotted down the stairs, moving to the sealed door. She pressed her hands up against the solid oak panels and stretched her mind out towards the powerful entity resting the other side; unlike all the other forbidden books her father tried to keep from her, this one reached back and saw her, touched her mind. She could feel its strength, its darkness, its magical charge burning through the air, threatening to choke her, to swallow her whole: this book demanded to be read._

 _And Little Evire knew in her saddened, resigned heart that soon, it would have what it wanted._

 _Xandedus Evire withdrew for bed in the early hours of the morning, but she waited at least another hour before she dared to venture downstairs, when the house was truly silent, as though all those beneath its roof were dead. Though silent, the peace was disturbed for her by the constant beckoning of the forbidden text, encouraging her to hurry, hurry! Locks posed no obstacle for Little Evire, and upon discovering the library door barring her path, she wasted no time picking at its mechanisms: she felt a surge of power as she worked, as though not only her own skills were present – the magic lingering in the air was helping her too. Hurrying her all the time. Impatient._

 _The door opened, she stepped inside, into the dark. What should have been her favourite place had taken on a more sinister identity: the air was heavy with a feverish energy, her father had lit numerous candles that now drooped over the tables and carpets, melted carcasses spoiling surfaces. And all the time, the shelves seemed to reverberate, seemed to hum, seemed to dance – the magicka made the atmosphere thick and dizzying._

" _Find me... find me ... read me... free me..."_

 _She heard it all the time, growing louder, commanding her. The other books lays dormant, their own magic sucked dry or suffocated. She raised her hands, sensed the origins of such power, traced her fingers over cabinets and shelving, across the spines of lifeless books, through thick entrails of dust._

" _Find me... find me... READ ME ... I AM HERE... RELEASE ME..."_

 _Little fingers lightly brushed against a lever, hidden somewhere on the middle bookshelf – she pressed against it and below her, on the floor, a small compartment sprang open. Immediately, she raised her hands to her ears, desperate to shut out the din that was echoing through her, to ignore the commands being shouted at her. Tears ran freely down her cheeks. She struggled within her own body, but it was though she had been taken over by another entity; her limbs moved without command. Bending low to the floor, scooping up a parcel wrapped in mottled brown paper, she untied the string and out fell an ancient tome, landing with a dull thud against the floor. It shuddered._

 _Little Evire fell to her knees._

 _She did not dare touch this magnificent publication, though part of her longed to: its battered spine was made of leather, decorated with bronzes and golds, the edges of its pages were singed and scorched and on its cover, it bore an unusual mark. Like a door or archway, and an entity emerging from it – a ball of light perhaps?_

 _The daughter of Xandedus Evire summoned all her courage, and spoke to the presence in the room, the one seemingly trapped within the paper confinement of the tome: "wha-_ _who_ _are you? Where have you come from?"_

 _There was a hiss, and then the book began to speak, "I am the Mysterium Xarxes. I was scribed in the deserts of rust and wounds. Turn my pages and you shall know all."_

 _She stretched out her hand, and hesitated. She knew this was wrong. She wanted her father._

" _Know all of what? Where are you from?"_

 _Her fingers were close now, almost at the corner of the cover, ready to turn to the first page. She couldn't stop herself. Tears streamed over her cheeks._

" _EVE – NO!"_

 _Her father! Charging through the door towards her, within touching distance! Come to save her!_

 _But it was too late. Little Eve Evire, without even noticing she had done, had taken hold of the Mysterium Xarxes. Searing pain surged through her body, throwing her to the floor, it seemed to take hold of her limbs and shake her furiously. Somewhere, through her father's cries, she could hear a maddening, sickening laughter; her world was turning black, she could no longer see the library, all of the wonderful books she loved to read, her darling father and his world-weary face. "Where are you taking me?" It was all she could muster as she drowned in the darkness._

 _And through the burning agony that blazed through her veins, an answer came as clear as day:_

" _Oblivion..."_


End file.
